The Risk I'll Always Take
by carelessdodger
Summary: When soulmates can mentally call upon eachother in times of danger or emotional sensitivity, having one Harriet Potter as yours would be a downright nightmare. However, having Jim Kirk and Spock would be no walk in the park either. For all involved, duty calls every other day. Spock/Fem!Harry/Jim.
1. Philosopher's Stone

**Chapter one:** **Not Alone.**

* * *

 **Part I**

 **Freak in a cupboard.**

They always said the first Call was the best. James Tiberius Kirk didn't understand that turn phrase, or rather, he thought it was only spoken by people who had no understanding of life and all its hardships. Of course, he understood the basics of it, understood the hope laced in each syllable. The first Call would open up the 'channel' between you and your supposed 'soulmate'. The mental link between soulmate's finally blossoming and maturing enough for the visitations to begin, a wonderous thing to be celebrated. Jim could hardly contain a scoff at the idea.

Everybody 'matured' differently. His mother, Winona Kirk, was called upon by his father when they were both only fifteen and seventeen respectively, young by normal standards. To be fair, Call's as they had become named instead of their full-length title that Jim couldn't pronounce, only really took place when one of the pair was either in danger or emotional distress. As an added bonus, at the end of the first Call, you got a nifty little marker on your skin that stayed with you for the rest of your life. _Wonderful._

Jim himself wasn't totally bought on the whole 'soul-mate' spiel they were force fed since birth. Did he really want one? Even after he saw the devastation and havoc it wreaks on his mother even to this day? Rightfully, she should have been dead if it wasn't for his and his brothers birth. Who knows, the doctors still think she will die once he and George eventually fly the nest.

What kind of life was that? No, James Tiberius Kirk wasn't sure he wanted one, despite the lengthy chats his mother had forced him to endure since boyhood. If she wouldn't change it for the world, if she never regretted a moment of it, ever, if she really would do everything exactly the same just so she could meet his father and spend the time they had together, then why did he find her crying at night? Why couldn't she look him in the eye? Why did she sign up for long duty hauls in Starfleet every chance she got, just to get away from the boy who looked too much like his father? Soulmates, to a young and impressionable Jim, seemed wholly more dangerous than good. A death sentence really. A ticking bomb strapped to his chest.

However, no one, especially his mother, had expected his first Call to happen when he was only ten. An unprecedented age for at least the last century. With war, murder and crime itself practically none existent, emotional distress or danger was hard to come by in this day and age, leaving most people's first calls to come in their mid-twenties, sometimes even later.

He was forcing down a bowl of chilling, slightly burnt, clumpy oats, the go to breakfast his mother made for him and George when she had to leave for another extended stay in space and was in a rush to dash through the door, trying his hardest not to gag. He hated oats. Loathed them. But vouchers were tight at the moment and so, to ease the strain that had taken up home on his mother's brows and mouth, he scoffed them down as fast as he could, acting as if she had given him a chocolate cake he so wished he had.

He was shuffling in the last spoonful, pushing down his nausea, when it happened. One moment he was sitting at the slightly wonky kitchen table, damned bowl in front of him, the next he was sitting on something squeaky, padded but harsh... Broken. The sparse lesson in school had told him the Calls would be odd, dreamy in a way. The types of dreams that left you soft and boneless, jellied, unquestioning, willing to go with the flow and not ponder the odd things you saw, felt or said. The questioning would come later, when you were mentally back where you belonged, in your own body.

Dazedly, but frighteningly peacefull, Jim took a gawking gander around himself. A bare bulb, dim, broken and old, was swinging and flickering above his head, the intensity changing in pulsating intervals. The room... No, not a room, too enclosed and claustrophobic to be ever called a room, was old too. The paint chipped, cracks splintering across the walls like spiderwebs, some strange contraption stuck to the wall, bleeping out a number he didn't understand. A shelf was stacked at one end of the tiny room, a tool box and various mechanical instruments cluttered upon its shelves, all apart from the middle shelf. A wilted flower, a picture of a red-headed woman, something Jim had never seen before apart from in the Orion race, smiling with a man at her side and a little-broken music box. On the wall, next to the weird machine, was a crumpled piece of paper, at least, he thought it was paper, it looked how his school teacher had described it, colored in with crayon's boldly stated _'Harry's room'_ in nearly unintelligible chicken scrawl.

Looking down, he found he was actually sitting on some form of cot, bed, if you could call it that, which took up all the space of the heavily slanted ceiling box he was in. It was more a metal frame, bars and slats were broken and jagged, a pallet of cotton the only padding and comfort added, a holey blanket, threadbare, the single option for warmth. Then he heard the sniffles.

She was a young thing, perhaps just a year short of his age, thin, wiry, with a mass of crimson curls that nearly engulfed her small frame, cascading around her, shielding her from the cold room. He couldn't see much of her, she had her knobbly knee's drawn up and pressed tightly to her chest, one sock on, the other god knows where. The shirt she wore was three times too big, blue so faded it was white in some places, falling off her shoulder, but he could spot a hole in its side that had been, while crudely, lovingly stitched back together. It was her face that caught him and held him there, or more aptly, her eyes.

Her features were sharp, angled, foretelling a feline grace once the baby fat had relinquished its hold on it, but right now, it was an odd mix to see, almost like looking at a baby kitten. Her nose was straight, upturned at the end, almost cute in an _'I want to press it and say bop'_ sort of way. Her lips were flushed, pouty, the bottom fuller than its top counterpart. Her eyebrows were arched, sharp, slicing angles, as deeply red as her fire hair, almost comically so for such a young face. Although on closer look, Jim could see an angry scar, oddly shaped, splitting down her forehead like a bolt of lightening and cutting through one brow, leaving it disjointed in two, so long it touched down on her eyelid. She had been close to losing that eye by the looks of it.

But it was the eyes themselves that were jarring. Green, in every bejeweled shade ever possible, glittered from underneath long lashes, old eyes. Too old for such a young person. They seemed to be able to look right through you, into you, to pick you apart attribute by deed and leave nothing but the pecked bone of your existence in place. "Who are you and what are you doing in my room?"

Jim fell back within himself, floundering for a moment. This... This was her room? It was nothing more than a shoe box. He and his family weren't rich, but even he had a better room than this monstrosity.

Beyond his control, he found himself speaking, tone calm, placid, though he was feeling anything but. "Jim. I'm Jim. I... I don't know what I'm doing here... I think you called me. Are you... Are you my soulmate?"

The girl scoffed and dug deeper into herself, arms tightening around her legs. "Called you? I don't even know who you are, how could I call you? Now, what are you doing in my room?"

Jim's mouth wouldn't move the way he wanted to. A hundred and one questions swam around his mind, begging to be asked. How old was she? Where was she? Was she okay? Obviously not if she had Called him. What could he do to help? And yet, he still found himself hung up on this... Hellhole being a room at all. "This is really your room? You... You sleep here?"

Of course, she did, he knew, hence the bed and blanket and still, even knowing this, he couldn't actually bring himself to believe it. Why would her parents leave her here? Jim saw her shoulders tense, spine straightened a fraction, indignation. He had bruised her pride. Her tone was deprecating, incredulous and more than slightly tinged with anger when she snarled back at him. "Yes. Can't you read the sign? It's not much but it's mine... It's not so bad..."

She seemed to be trying to convince herself more than she was him, her tone loosing the biting edge at the end, fading to smoke that clung in the air and suffocated not only her but Jim too. He could feel her now. Just the barest brushes of foreign emotions against his own, a skim of raw, coarse velvet that scratched against his own more temperant silken emotions. Anger. Hurt. Pain. Loneliness. She was lonely... So very, very lonely.

He knew why he was here now. Jim wasn't the brightest student. He wasn't the fastest boy. He wasn't the hardest either, though he got into his own fair share of scrapes and boyish tussles. But one thing no one could or would dispute, was Jim was friendly. He was sociable. He was chatty, an extrovert with enough charm to quell even the grumpiest of old buggers. This girl... His soul-mate was alone and she needed a friend. Now that was something he could do.

Scrambling up as much as the staggered ceiling let him, Jim shuffled towards the strange machine, reaching up to press the buttons on its face, even going for the little key still held inside to twist and see the surprise, a devilish grin playing on his face when he turned to face the girl. "What's this do?"

She needed a distraction, a friend, and Jim was happy to play the part. Perhaps, in a certain light, his mother had been right. Soulmates weren't the worst thing to exist. The girl dived for him, trying to smack his hands away from the box before he could press the bright red button. "Don't touch that, It's the electric meter! You'll turn the light off if you play with it!"

Jim only chuckled, he had no clue what an 'electric meter' was, nor what it would cause if he messed with it, but where was the fun in knowing? His longer arms gave him the advantage as he reached around her and pressed the button... Repeatedly. "What, like this?"

On the twelfth click, a pleasing sound if Jim did say so himself, the bulb above their heads made a squeaking pop and the two were plunged into darkness. Jim winced, pulling his hand away from the box-machine. So that was what an 'electric meter' did. It took away light. Maybe he really shouldn't have messed with it.

However, just as he was about to begrudgingly apologize and ask what he could do to fix it, a little light, flaring, white, condensed, burst to life in between him and the girl, hovering in the air, dancing almost. It was... It was beautiful. "Are you... Did you make that?!"

Jim winced once more. His pitch had been a little high then, too high for the young man he pretended he was and not the boy he was in reality. He could see the girls face through the small light the ball created, almost as if she was bathed in moonlight. She was scared, beyond scared. Her emotions tasted bitter. Jim didn't understand."I... I didn't mean to! I'm sorry... Please, I swear I didn't mean to! I promised it wouldn't happen again but it always does."

Jim's brows drew down heavily on his forehead, crinkling in the middle. She was scared, petrified, the emotion grating on his own. He liked it as much as those burnt oats. Not. At. All. "Didn't mean to? But... But that's awesome! It looks like a mini white dwarf star! Can you make it bigger?"

The girl faltered, confusion and apprehension bubbling across her face, slanting her eyes in shadows."You... You don't think I'm a freak?"

Jim laughed loudly, incredulously, without restraint. In all honesty, those three adjectives could be ascribed to Jim himself, how he lived life."What? No! If I could do that, you would never get me to stop making them. Can you... Can you do other stuff as well? How did you make them? Can you do more than one at a time? Can you make it red? Or blue? Or orange? Or yellow? Try Yellow!"

The little star of light flared brighter, growing, twirling faster. The alien feeling of fright lifted, morphed to happiness. She wasn't scared anymore and that made Jim... Well, he didn't know the right words for it, but he felt... Lighter. Better. Like coming home after a long time away."I... Sometimes. I just wish it and if I wish really hard, it happens."

Jim was practically vibrating with excitement as he sank back down to sit opposite the girl."Well, what are you waiting for? Wish for something! Go on! Anything!"

It took a while, and even longer before he noticed the change in the dim light, but when he cocked his head to the side, taking in the little star, a piece of his fringe fell into his eyes and as he went to hazardly and roughly push it back, he stalled. "My hair! It's pink! this... This is amazing. Imagine all the pranks you can do and get away with! Oh, now you have to show me other things, you just have to. You can't just leave it there... Go on, try and turn my skin blue! I always wanted blue skin."

And so the two children played. They laughed. One child even turned blue, like he had asked. More little stars came out to play, most yellow, some blue, one even pink and soon they found themselves laying side by side on the rickety cot, cramped but happy, watching the balls of light dance as the girl twirled her hand, movement getting sloppy as she began to drift off, Jim too amazed and intrigued to notice the change as he tried to catch one with his bare hands.

However, he did notice the morph of his surroundings seconds later, felt the kitchen table under his cheek, heard his mother shouting his name, felt her hands shaking his shoulder, something that sounded like an order for George to run and get a med officer echoing in the recess of his mind.

Groggily, he sat up, blearily watching the distorted colors of the world around him form into shapes he knew. His mother's face, worried, wide-eyed, so close to his own it was the only thing he could see. Slowly, like the first bloom in spring, a smile, wide, white, toothy fractured his face. "You were right mom. They're not so bad after all."

Winona only grew confused, until her gaze landed on his arms, one clutching his forearm as if he had been burnt. Burnt. She knew that feeling. Stunned, she steadily reached for the hand covering his arm, gently prying it away, an act Jim allowed her to do, almost simultaneously crying and laughing at the sight that greeted her.

In a scrawl she could hardly read, blazoned in hot red with glittering speckles of gold, read two simple words.

 _Harriet Lillian Potter._

The tears came and so did the laughter as she reached up and cradled her sons face in her hands. He was too young. It shouldn't have happened now, but, worries could come later, when he wasn't smiling at her like that, that same smile his father used to give her. "No Jim. It's not bad at all is it?"

* * *

 **Part II**

 **Not Alone.  
**

Jim dug his chin harder into his folded arms on the window sill. The pain kept him in the present, away from the past. Away from the future. Grounding him. It was the only action he could think to use. Through the window, he could see his brother, Goerge, crossing the front lawn, practically jogging to the car parked on the road outside their house, not even wasting time in opening the door as he threw his bag in and then jumped through the window too.

Then the car was pulling away and so was George. Gone. Left. Never to return. George had left him. Ran away. Abandoned him to Frank. Yes, Jim wanted to run away too. God knows he did, especially when his mother wasn't here to play buffer between him and the man she had married two years ago. Frank had been like her, widowed from a soulmate's untimely demise, and in that, they thought getting married was the best plan.

Jim hated Frank. He detested him. He yelled. Called him names. Punching too, if Jim wasn't fast enough to dodge or run. He didn't know when was worst anymore, when his mother was home and he had to get between her and Frank when Frank lost his temper and became violent, or when his mother wasn't there and he and George were left to face the bastard by themselves. But it was no longer themselves. It was himself. Singular. George had left him to face this alone.

A soft voice, feathery, spoke up from behind him, somewhere from the depths of his bedroom, likely from his unmade bed. "It's okay to be angry you know? It's okay to be angry, to be hurt, to feel betrayed... But he's still your brother. He's still family."

The elation of having Harry being Called to him was diminished to nothing in the wake of watching his brother turn his back on him. He had not seen or heard of her since that night, nearly two years ago now. However, he never forgot it, sometimes replaying it before he would go to sleep, pretending he could still see the glittering stars she had created like magic. Sometimes, when he was especially tired, he would still try and catch them. He was twelve now, she would be turning eleven soon.

Jim huffed and pushed harshly away from the window, snapping around to glower at Harry. She was sat on the end of his messy bed, the mass of curls tied into a giant ball on top of her head and thin neck, shirt still too large, but this time she had both socks on, and some weird shoes that were tied together by a long piece of thin... Rope? They were dusty, grass stained like the knees of her thick, bluish trousers. What the hell were they made from? It looked like a weird type of Denimetex.

It didn't matter. Nothing really did now. George had left him behind with only a 'goodbye Jim, maybe one day we'll meet again.' Jim scoffed. Yeah, they would meet in hell. The bastard had even left when he knew Frank would be gone for an hour or two, not brave enough to face him. "He's no brother of mine. I don't know about where you come from, but here? _Here,_ family doesn't abandon each other."

Harry's hands braced against her knees as she gently stood, taking a few cautious steps closer. Jim couldn't look at her face, not even her chin. He knew what was there. Like he intimately knew what was displayed on his own. Hurt. Pain. Agony. So much for soulmates, if the only thing you gave them was the worst of what you were feeling. How did he get here? How did they all come to this? His mother, who was a damned Starfleet officer, beaten, broken down. Nothing but a shell of what she used to be. George, brave George running away and him, disconnected, alone, cut off.

While his voice had been practically shouting, restraint never being his strong suit, Harry's was even, soft, like a trickling river. The one calm thing in his world that was just chaos. "Look, I don't know if you're real or a figment of my imagination, but I feel you. I. Feel. You. I feel your pain. How you want to cry-"

He hadn't meant to do it, he swore, but he did. His arm lashed out, grasping his bookshelf by his window, as he heaved and pushed it over, the bang of it falling to the floor somehow, oddly, soothing. He was too caught up in his own pain, the loss, to really notice how Harry thought he was imaginary, to even question it. "I don't want to cry! Not over a bastard like him! I'm not hurt Harry! I'm pissed! He left. He. Left. Us... Me... He left me! He's nothing but a coward! Scum! What sort of brother or son turns his back on his family?! Why did he leave me behind..."

His voice broke at the end and the traitorous tears he had managed to hold back and lock deep inside himself broke free from their prison, trailing down his face. His chest heaved, jagged sobs wracking his ribs. Finally... Finally, he caved into himself, sobbing, crying, perhaps even yelling, he couldn't tell anymore.

He did, however, hear the soft pad of Harry's feet as she walked over, gently. He felt her delicate, tiny hands clasp onto his shoulders, forcing him to look at her squarely in the face for the first time. It only broke him further. To see his own pain, so present, so crude, shone back at him like a mirror hurt more than he thought it could. "You can be angry and hurt at the same time, Jim. It isn't a one or the other sort of deal."

His hand shook violently as he reached up and grabbed onto one of hers, pulling it down, clinging to it as if it was a lifeline. Perhaps it was. It felt like it, and really, wasn't that the most important? Not what something was, but how it felt? Before he could pull away, close in on himself like he had gotten so good at doing lately, he found himself rambling. Now the gates were open, he didn't think he could shut them, even if all he wanted was just that. "My dad died as I was born. Mom's always off on duty in some unknown quadrant. George was the only person I had left and now he's gone. They... They all leave in the end. Everybody does."

Harry squeezed his hand back just as tightly, but it didn't help, not really. He was right. They always left... She would too eventually. "You're not alone. I'm here... For what that's worth. And even If I do leave, or you leave, or however this, whatever this is, works, I'll come back. I'll always come back. You are not alone. Never truly alone. You're my friend and where _I_ come from, friends don't leave one another."

Jim snapped out like a viper, wrapping his arms around her and pulling her to him, squeezing, hugging with everything he had. She stiffened a moment, just a split second, before she returned the hug, more softly than him. _Home._ He felt like he was home again.

Unfortunately, the bang from the front door being pushed open popped the bubble and then Jim was there, only him in his room, air between his arms, no warmth, no smile. Nothing. Maybe George was gone. His mother too, if her ship ran into trouble like his nightmares told him it would, and perhaps she might not return, but Harry would. She would be back, he knew.

He wasn't alone anymore.

* * *

 **Part III**

 **Great Losses.**

"Another one? Perhaps Hermione is right and I am losing my mind. Apparently seeing strange boys only you can see is a prelude to absolute insanity. Go figure."

Spock's head inclined to the side a fraction. He was a bit dazed. He had retired to bed like his mother had requested of him after a night-meal. He had been sure he had been meditating and yet, here he was. The atmosphere was too real to be a dream, the stagnant air to cloying and poignant to be made from a hazy R.E.M cycle. He had not traveled anywhere... A burning itch tickled the skin of his forearm.

Ah, fascinating.

Of course, he knew all about soulmates. Vulcan's were taught in-depth about the topic, as well as his own mother's teachings, which mainly consisted of being bonded to other species, a factor he must add into his own equation with him being the product of his own parents strange and rare bonding. Vulcan's, in general, did not get matched outside their own species, unlike human's who matched with nearly all known galactic species, his parent's bonding being exempt, and his mother had wanted to make sure he had enough information and confidence if such a precedence should befall on him too.

It seemed, by the strange, cavernous room that held old Human architecture designs and the oddly red-haired girl, that it had, in fact, happened to him too. However, he wasn't willing to label the girl human quite yet. Red hair, in human's, had died out one hundred and twenty-four years, three months and seven... No, five days ago. Perhaps she had Orion blood in her? It would explain the hair.

Her reaction to his presence was confusing too. She did not look at him, a common reaction from most species when a stranger appears in the previously empty room they inhabited. Instead, she simply stayed seated on the dusty, barren flooring in front of a rather large, ornate earth mirror, staring into its depths.

Her words themselves were confusing as well. Imagine? Another one? Only she can see? Of course only she can see him, she is only mentally linked to him, none of her acquaintances, or friends as he is sure she would call them, could. Did she not know of soul-bonding? No. She must. Every species, even ones who had only recently graduated into space travel, knew of such things, taught it to their young. It was detrimental to the species survival otherwise. One who did not teach of such things was a doomed civilization indeed.

Perhaps this was the equivalent of what his mother said was 'playing shy' or an 'ice breaker'. Nevertheless, it would be rude not to answer her. "I am not familiar with this Hermione and can neither validate, nor discredit her assumption. However, I will say I am neither imagined or faked. I am very much here, at least, mentally. If you are not inconvenienced, please inform me of where I am exactly?"

Her emotions, which he could feel so precisely that he could almost taste them, showed a deep ocean of melancholy. Denial. Want. She still had not looked away from the mirror and Spock theorized it was the mirror that was forcing the girl to feel this way. Fascinating indeed. He had never seen a mirror able to produce such unstable, strong emotions in an individual before. "Yes, well, you would say that, wouldn't you... You are currently in very bowels of Hogwarts, school of witchcraft and wizardry."

Spock straightened out, clasping his hands behind his back as he strode forward towards the girl. His mother had coached him on this very instance many times. He would introduce himself, let her introduce herself, and then, politely, ask questions about her person that are not too intimate but detailed enough to gain some knowledge of her. Perhaps he should try and keep the conversation going? "Witchcraft and Wizardry? What a peculiar and archaic belief to still adhere to. Is this common practice where you live?"

Silence. Nothing. No breeze. No birds. No footsteps. Just the sound of his beating heart echoing in his ears. Had he... Had he said something wrong? His mother had warned him he can come across as impolite and detached, especially to humans. He... He should try again. "What is this mirror and why do you stare so deeply into its depths?"

Only then did the girl turn around. She was... She was... She was aesthetically pleasing. Symmetrical. Smooth, sharp features that showed promise with age. Her hair, curly, out of control, strangely matched her features. What was the word his mother would use? Ah, yes, she was beautiful. However, he also noticed how thin she was, the rapid pulse thrumming in her neck, the dark circles under her eyes.

She had not been sleeping for some time now. From what he understood of human biology, this was harmful. However, his lessons he had memorized faded from his mind when she gave him a crooked smile. "It's called the mirror of Erised. It doesn't show you your reflection, not really. It shows you your deepest desires."

Spock faltered a little, but perhaps that was a good thing, he was already standing borderline inappropriately close. Once again his head cocked to the side. He had never heard of such technology before, and to be cased in something as mundane as a mirror... Even more fascinating. However, he highly doubted humans could create such a thing, and as a rebuttal was about to escape his lips, he caught his own reflection in the mirror.

He stood very much as he stood here, in the room. However, behind him were the Vulcan boys who had found a pastime in mocking and degrading him. Only, they weren't there, not behind him, he checked, and neither were they mocking him in the reflection. They were... Well, they were excepting him, urging him to come along with them, to join in.

Spock tore his eyes away from the lie. For that was all this mirror was, an elaborate lie. Perhaps he did wish for this to come to pass, but he would rather earn it than have it given to him as an illusion. Turning forty-five degrees from the mirror, so he could not see his reflection, and could solely focus on the girl approximately three to four years younger than him, his voice was even more blank, cold, desolate of human infliction as it normally was. His father would have been proud. "What do you see in this contraption?"

He could see her lips thin a fraction, her nostrils flaring a quarter of an inch. Interesting, she did not wish to share what she wanted most, but if she did not, how did she ever expect to obtain it? "My parents."

Well. That put the bits of information he had gathered from her person into perspective. She was thin, malnourished. Her clothes too big, old, worn to decrepit. Summarizing, he theorized her parents were dead and in their wake, she was left in unfit care. Something hot and heavy burned in his chest.

Spock pushed it down, cataloging to review the heady feeling later, when he had less pressing matters to attend to. From her unruliness, state and posture in sitting in front of this mirror of lies, wasting more time here would be detrimental to her health even further.

Against all that his father and teachers had taught him thus far, Spock took something no Vulcan took. A gamble. He leisurely placed a flat palm on her shoulder, making sure he did not touch any skin. That would be an unforgivable slight and invasion on her that he wasn't willing to commit without her agreement first.

In turn, she slowly drifted away from the mirror to look up at him. The hot and heavy feeling was replaced with something light but equally warm. "We never get over great losses. We take them in. They become a part of us and make us stronger, better people. But first, we need to accept the loss and realize we cannot change what has already been. You need sleep, I can feel how tired you are."

The girl gave a shaky nod, sliding out from underneath his hand to stand, casting one last glimpse at the mirror. His fingers flexed, almost reaching back for the warmth, but he wrangled the urge in and placed the limb back behind his back at a safe distance. "You're right... You're right on both accounts."

Then she was walking away to the heavy wooden double doors, about to leave. Spock didn't know what to say, he didn't know if he should say anything more than he had. Before she slipped through the door, she glanced back at him, a twinkle in her eye that had not been present before. "Thank you... You know you don't need them to accept you. You're fine the way you are. Forget them."

The clang of the door left Spock sitting up in his bed back home, on Vulcan. Looking down at his arm, he nodded, stood, slipped on his house slippers and strolled over and out of his sleeping chambers, towards the kitchen where he could hear his mother already preparing morning-meal.

He was right, he found, when he paused at the doorway and saw his mother's back, already hunched over the thing she called a 'slow-cook pot'. He didn't understand her fascination with cooking when a replicator was readily available for her usage two foot to her left. "Mother, I have seen her."

Amanda Grayson twirled around, spoon still grasped in her hand, confusion washing her face white before understanding rang through. She dropped her spoon and dashed over, but before she could look at his arm and see the name, he spoke. "Mother, do you believe I am 'fine' the way I am?"

Amanda frowned deeply. "Of course I do. Why... Did she... Did she deny you? Did she tell you, you weren't? Or-"

Spock shook his head. "No. On the contrary, it was her that told me this. I was just wondering if it is a view that is shared or singular."

A bright smile brokered out of his mother's face, almost blindingly bright. Humans... They were so open, so easy to understand with their emotions so blatant on their faces. Then why did he not understand the girls? She... Confused him, many times. It was not something he was used to. "Well Spock, I believe I like this girl already. Come on son, don't leave your mother waiting, show me the mark."

He held his arm out primly, underside up, though, as he did so, he spoke quietly. Once his mother saw the name, she would understand the problem he faced. "Mother, she's... I believe she's human."

 _Harriet Potter._

Amanda stared at the writing, almost as bad as her own when she indulged in such an act. For a moment her face blanked, a serene expression that any Vulcan would envy taking up place in her normally emotive features. Then she smiled at him calmly. "Do not worry son. Let me handle your father. Go on, morn-meal is ready."

And handle Sarek she did.

* * *

 **Part IV**

 **Kick Arse and Take Names.**

Spock sat as perfectly still as he could in the waiting chair outside the main office. In a few minutes, one of the heads of administration would appear, call him in and he would then proceed to complete the entry exams for the Vulcan Learning Centre.

He is... Nervous. He has three options by the way he has logically worked through the factors. One, he could pass with top marks he is sure he could get. However, this would taunt the already illogical hatred and discourse between him and a few fellow students who taunt him daily for his heritage. Two; He could fail the tests purposefully.

This would mean he would no longer have to deal with his fellow students, but it would also hinder his education and therefore impact his later life choices such as career and stability of income and home. And finally three; He could fail some questions purposefully, but not the whole test, leading him to get into the school, but not with a high enough point advantage to garner even more attention unto himself.

The last one so far was the one likeliest to cause the least amount of problems and the most suitable course of action. It would allow him to study in peace, but keep inside the bracket of ordinary, average, that often lead to students being overlooked. "You really shouldn't."

His eyes locked to the side of him to the previously empty chair, which was now inhabited by his soulmate, Harry. He had not thought his nervousness had been so pronounced or needful as to call her to him, but yet he really could not complain. Surely if there was anyone who should and could understand his predicament, it would be Harry? This was also the first time she had been called to him, their previous exchange having happened seven months, three weeks and sixteen hours ago. It was... Good to see her again. "I do not think I understand what you are alluding to-"

Harry cut him off with a sharp, wiley smile that seemed too old for her face. Too knowledgeable. "Yes, you do. You're thinking of scoring lower in these tests to appease people who don't deserve to be appeased. It won't work."

The last three words hand been partially sung in a disjointed tune, taunting, as if she knew something he didn't, even as she smiled and turned to face the front, towards the administration office he would be called into soon enough. "Explain? If I give them no reason to persist in this behavior, if they believe their spots in the hierarchy are unchallenged, they will come to the logical solution of stopping this redundant routine they have driven themselves into."

Harry let out a bark of full-bellied laughter, bright, tinkling, her teeth and eyes glinting in the hot Vulcan sun from the windows all around the hallway, her cheeks merrily flushed. "They're jealous of you. They know you're purposefully trying to score low, and yet, you still beat most of them. It's a pointless tactic. Trust me, I tried it. It won't work. Plus, why hide, change and self-sabotage your goals and aspirations for people who won't do the same for you?"

Spock momentarily pondered what she had told him, mentally agreeing to her valid points. Why was he trying to do all that again? To make life 'easier'? From what his father and mother told him, it is always a foolish action to expect anything to be easy and he was not a foolish boy. But still, he wanted the taunting to stop. "What do you think my course of action should be then?"

Harry swiveled in her chair, smiling once more at him. However, this time he had the odd feeling it was not a happy smile, but a sad one, if such a thing could exist. "I know you want them to, but they won't stop. So, in face of this, I say actually give them a reason to do what they do. Go in there, get the best marks this school's history has ever seen and kept climbing from there."

Spock actually frowned at this. "Keep climbing up? I fail to see what climbing has to do with-"

There it was again, that laughter. "It's a metaphor. It means keep being and doing the best. Don't cave under people's biased standards and expectations of you. In short, start kicking arse and taking names."

Spock went to question why she tried to explain a metaphor with another metaphor he did not understand, but he thought he had a feeling of it, when the swoosh of the office door filtered through the heavy air. "Spock? We request your presence now."

His mother came to his side, bending down beside his seat. She had been in the office with the administrators to get some files and databases filled out. "Are you sure you're fine son? We can always reschedule the tests for another day. You are looking rather pale. Who were you talking to?... Was it her? Harry? What did she say?"

Spock shook his head, the corners of his mouth upturned just a fraction. "I am ready and fine mother... At least I am now. She used a turn of phrase I do not quite understand but I think I understand the fundamentals. She said to 'kick arse and take names.'"

His mother laughed, just as brightly as Harry had. "Yes, I'm definitely starting to like this girl. Well then, you better head in and begin. I have every faith in you Spock. Just try your best. I'm sure you'll pass."

He did pass. He succeeded with the highest score seen in the last hundred and seventy- six years. In short, he 'kicked arse and took many names' that day.

* * *

 **!IMPORTANT!**

This is my first ever venture into cross-over, and only my second into fanfiction in general, so it might take me a while to get things right. The important thing I want to ask you guys is this; I have plenty of material from the Harry Potter verse to have Harry 'Call' Spock or Jim to her, however, I need some inspiration for having them 'Call' Harry.

So, if you have any idea's, please, please let me know. It could be a word, a poem, a song, even a whole situation you want to see play out. If you have anything, don't hesitate to P.M me the idea, even drop it in a review, I would be ever so grateful. The only guidelines are it has to be an emotional situation, good emotions, bad, or they have to be in danger. As the premise of soul-mate fic I've laid out sort of dictates.

In this fic I've sort of mashed a lot of things together, dream shares, soulmate mark trope, fem!Harry, I don't know, I sort of went a little crazy with it and I have no doubt it's confusing at the moment but I hope It clears up in future chapters, that is if you guys want this to carry on and not just end the madness here XD

THANK YOU to everyone who read, are you enjoying it? And, perhaps, see that box down there with review on it? Try it out for me, I think it might be broken ;) In all seriousness, please drop a review, it lets me know your guys thoughts, if I should carry this on or scrap it and work on other things.

Well, not much to say for now, I hope you liked it and if I do continue it, you will like the upcoming chapters just as much, because as whacky as this idea is, I really enjoyed writing it!

 _carelessdodger._


	2. Chamber of Secrets

**Chapter Two: Trapped in a Cycle.**

* * *

 **Part V**

 **Fighting to Forget.**

James T. Kirk wiped the blood dribbling down his nose off with the back of his hand, wincing as his knuckles carelessly bumped and caught the bruised cheekbone that was blossoming into a rather nasty black eye. He was only thirteen. His opponent had been dragged off somewhere, Jim didn't care where, by one of his friends. It was just a school boy dogfight he would explain if anyone asked... Although, he wasn't sure they would. Not anymore.

Jim was used to it all now, the play, the act, the lies, blood and broken bones. If he got covered in bruises, painted in melancholy hues, perhaps he would be able to stop knowing which ones Frank had given him. He hoped he would. It was the reason he fought so much, just to forget, to hide, to pretend it never happened at home but in the streets or at school, on his own terms. This way, he was the one in control, even if it was based and built on lies.

You see, it was easy for Jim now, too easy to play pretend with Frank and everything that concerned him. He could take the blows, hide them under ones he had control over. He could take the verbal abuse, the fire in Frank's mouth, his tongue the wick and his teeth the spitting coals. He could handle the time when he was younger, when the shouting got so bad he would hide underneath his bed. But... He didn't know how or if he could control his mother and the feeling of unadulterated resentment he had building up inside of him.

The memories were the worst, they replayed in his mind over and over again, looped, trapped, a never ending cycle he couldn't break himself out of. It put stones in his heart, the pump and beat squeezing them, hurting, painful, a reminder that each beat counts. He was alive still. It's why he fought, why he thought he would always fight. To forget, to give a reason behind the pain, to pretend he had control. Did it matter?

At night, caught between sleep and consciousness, even when he knew for a fact his mother was away on duty, he thought he could hear them arguing, their shouts shaking the walls, their fights like thunder, continuous, loud, impossible to ignore, predictable. He would intervene if things grew violent, and after, when his mother cleaned his bloody nose with promises of packing and leaving, Jim would hate her all the more. They wouldn't pack. They wouldn't leave. They were as trapped as his thoughts, circles, around and around.

There was always rain with the thunder, and this type of rain always came in the form of mist in his mother's eyes. Eyes he could no longer bring himself to look at. Why did she cry when she never tried to fix it? Why cry when you put salt in the wound by making empty promises? In those moments, as bad as Jim thought it sounded, he hated his mother as much as he hated Frank. Why would she keep giving him hope they would leave when she had no plan what so ever to do so? Perhaps she hated him too. It was the only reason he could think of.

Sometimes, when Frank managed to keep his cool enough to storm out of the house with a thrown vase or bottle with a slam of the door instead of flying fists, Jim would find his mother on the couch, lifeless and lackluster arm thrown over her eyes, shielding the tears, but Jim could see. He always saw. He saw the mottled blotches around her nose, the pale streaks down flushed cheeks, the worrying of a fang into her bottom lip.

The worst, the very worst, was when she would gather herself up from the couch, limbs askew, unbalanced, wobbly, avoid his eyes and questions, his frantic pleas, force him upstairs, into bed and read him a story as if nothing had happened, as if it had all been in his mind, deranged, broken. He knew what would come sunrise then, when she read him those pretty stories from a blank face and thousand yard stare. She would be leaving for duty, gone, away, and some part of Jim wondered if her giving him those little slices of normality just before she abandoned him to Frank was really just another hint of depravity from her. Hope given. Hope taken. The cycle continues.

Come morning, even when he had told himself not to hope, she would do the same routine. Oats. A chaste kiss on the cheek. A tight hug and then the door would close and Jim would be alone, not sure when his mother would be back, if she would be back this time. Sometimes he thought she would die alone out there, in space.

Other times, he thought she would decide to stay on some planet she had visited, forget him, expunge him from her mind as if he was like some parasitic moss from a window pane. Other times, he thought she would rush through the door, hold him like she used to, when he really was a little boy that barely reached her kneecap, and promise never to leave again, or she was going to take him with her, it had all been a mistake and she was sorry, so very sorry. None of them ever happened and so, around he went.

Sometimes, after a rather vicious fight with Frank, Jim would stay up all night with his mother, trying to get her to smile, holding her, brushing away her tears. The next day she would get him a present, a cake or candy he had been after, though she never gave the present any reasoning, Jim knew why he got them.

A silent thank you she could never voice. She really shouldn't have... He never wanted them. He wanted her to try and make him smile. He wanted her to hold him, to brush away his tears and fears. No hugs came, no silly tactless jokes to try and make him laugh, no reassurance that they were going to be fine, just a treat, a smile that never reached her eyes and an oppressively silent day.

No, perhaps he had it wrong, the worst was when she would com him when she docked at a starbase, the system untraceable like all coms from Starfleet bases. She would tell him to say he was okay, 'Say you're okay Jim', never asking, telling him to say it because she knew the truth yet wouldn't acknowledge it and couldn't bare hearing it. He would do as he was told, voice trembling, though he would pass it off as his voice breaking, something all human boys went through at his age. She would end with a 'I love you', he would repeat it like a well-trained pet and she would be gone, the line dead, nothing but a blank, black screen, a slight buzz his only company.

Sometimes he couldn't bring himself to press the off button, he would pretend she was still on there, he would speak the truth, how he missed her, how he sort of hated her, how he was alone, how he wanted to leave but stay, how they should run away together. No one ever answered and the screen stayed black, but he would spend hours there, pretending. Jim was the best at pretending. Circles circling circles. Chained.

He had so many questions he would never ask and his mother would never answer. What would his father say if he saw her now, saw them now? Her always running. Jim Broken. George lost. Why say she loved him when she helped cage him, leave him, part of the cycle Jim just wanted to end? Why wasn't she brave enough to leave? Permanently? Why did she always leave him behind? "Oh, Jim..."

A pale, long-fingered hand reached for his face, to cradle, to hit, he wasn't sure anymore and on instinct, he flinched away, his brain only catching up seconds later to tell him who it was. Harry. He didn't expect Harry to understand his flinch, his recoils when she reached for him. In fact, he hoped she never would, for the only way to truly understand would be for her to be going through what he was, and he would never wish that upon anybody.

She didn't huff or scoff like he had expected her to do, instead, she reached out once more, slowly, gently, calmly placing her hand upon his cheek, not pushing or pulling, but coaxing him to turn and face her. She left it in his control if he wanted to turn or not, no orders.

Against what he thought he should do, hide his face like he hid everything else, he turned to face her, showing off his swollen face, bruises, cuts and scrapes. He must look a mess, chaos, destroyed compared to her own smooth complexion. Old ruins crumpled next to a marble temple. Her fingers were soft, butterfly wings, slowly stroking his skin. Her eyes were wide, unblinking, unflinching as she stared into his. "I'm here Jim."

No 'it's going to be fine'. No 'you're okay'. No lies. Harry, since he had known her, had never once lied to him. He would have torn his face away from her hand if she had tried to right then, when he was vulnerable and couldn't hide it behind his false bravado. Just... I'm here. And she was. Here. Sometimes, after so long of it, he would forget he wasn't alone. "Jim, you can't keep doing this. You can't keep this up. I'm... You don't deserve this. No one does."

Jim broke, reaching up to grasp and grapple at her hand, fingers locking around hers, turning his face to bury his eyes into the soft skin of her palm, sobbing. Her other hand and arm wrapped around his shoulders, tugging him to her, hugging him. When was the last time he had a hug? He couldn't remember... He couldn't remember and the sobs came harder and Harry squeezed him tighter, as if she could push him into her body and protect him. She had tried to do magic before when he called her to him, but it seemed while mentally here, her magic wasn't and so, he could feel how useless she felt. Still, at the time, it had almost made him smile to see her flinging every known spell at a red-faced Frank, it did, however, warm him to know someone was out there, willing to fight for him even though he never asked.

All she could offer was words, touch, for her, that wasn't enough, wasn't good enough, but to him... To him it was almost too much. Eventually, he managed to gain control of his cries, though, he did not try to pull himself away from the embrace and Harry seemed reluctant on letting him go. With a croaky voice, he spoke. "I'm leaving."

Harry's hand stalled it's path up and down his back before carrying on. "Leaving? Where are you going?"

Jim finally pulled away, rubbing a hand down his face, destroying the evidence of his weakness, his tears. Harry let him go but kept a hand on his shoulder. He was grateful, he needed touch right then. "I'm leaving the planet. I've already bought the tickets this morning to some human colony... I just thought it was a good idea for one last fight before I went. For good ol' times sake, you know? The shuttles due in three hours time. I'm... I'm leaving."

He had to go, he couldn't stay, he was dying, inside, outside, both perhaps. Harry and Jim huddled closer together. "Leaving to a new planet? You know, where I'm from, we move countries at most but planets? Wow. We should celebrate, what do you want to do?"

Jim looked around himself, at the bench, at the sky, then back to Harry with a shattered smile. Harry never judged. Never forced him to do or say anything he didn't want to. He needed her, he knew that now. He needed her as much as he needed the marrow in his bones. "Let's just... Sit and watch the stars. Who knows, one might even be my new home."

Harry gave a jilted nod, leaning back into the bench, craning her neck to look at the stars. "Do I get to know the name of your new home or do I have to guess? Did you pick it out by how flashy its name is? I know what you're like Jim. Naked VIII doesn't mean the inhabitants walk around starkers."

Jim chuckled, the first laughter he had had in months, reached up and plucked Harry's hand off his shoulder. However, he refused to drop it, instead of lacing his fingers through hers, settling back into the bench himself, looking up at the great yonder. He was going to a new home, a fresh start, he had his best friend beside him and the stars ahead. In that moment, bloodied, slightly broken and aching, Jim was full of hope and promise of a better future. A happier one. "Funny, Harry, real funny. But no, I just picked the one that the next shuttle was leaving for. Tarsus IV... It's got to be better than here anyway."

* * *

 **Part VI**

 **Call me.**

Jim was worried. Scared. Terrified. The implications were too much, the repercussions drastic. Harry lay in what looked like a rudimentary medi-bed, forearm wrapped up on a white clothe, bruises splodged across her face, a cut lip peaking out daringly. He had been called because Harry was worried about her friend, the bushy-haired one that spoke almost condescendingly to Harry, snobbish and hurried as if her thoughts were so important the universe needed them out and in the air as fast as possible.

Jim didn't really care for the brunette, though he liked the red-headed one who was littered in freckles, a Ron Weasley if he remembered correctly. The problem was, why he was so worried, was he had been called to her hospital bedside... Not when she was going through what put her into the bed in the first place.

If she had been in danger, enough to put her into a medi-bed on an extended stay, she should have been in enough danger to call him to her. And she had been in grave danger, from the story she told him, sensing no lies from her but a sharp, biting sort of cold detachment as she relayed the events, from the conversations he had overheard from her and an ancient man with a beard longer than surely possible.

A man, a long dead man, Jim still wasn't sure how that worked, who apparently also killed her parents, had opened a secret room in her school, sent out a horrific beast to kill unsuspecting victims, the teachers and tutors had done nothing and after the disappearance of a close friend, Harry being Harry had decided to find the room all herself and take on the beast with a... With a fucking sword of all things. She was only twelve! What sort of teachers not only condoned this behavior, rewarding it with points, but gave her the sword to use mid-battle, to begin with?!

The beast... Basilisk as Harry had told him, was highly poisonous, fast and could kill anyone with a glance, one mistaken look and it would have been game over for her, and Harry, while killing the thing, had had a fang the size of a Milidarian staff stabbed through her forearm. All the while she fought against the poisoning long enough to stab a diary that somehow, someway made a dead man not so dead. Jim... Jim couldn't wrap his head around it and the excuse of a shoulder shrug and magic wasn't enough.

If that wasn't enough to be scared about, Harry being a part of a school where things like this were common enough, Harry had laid crippled on the cold damp floor, dying and had not called him, even subconsciously like she should have. In the end, calls all equated to strong emotions. Dying, danger, to most people, forced a strong emotional response but... But not in Harry. She had been dying and she had not had the emotional response to drag him to her side.

In short, she did not care if she was hurt. She did not care if she died. He had also learned this was not the first time, last year she had faced down the very man that should be dead but wasn't, and she had not called him. Jim had only found out when she had smiled disarmingly at him and said: "Hey, I survived a troll, a three-headed dog, and a possessed Professor Quirrel last year, this year wasn't that bad in comparison."

And yet, she cared enough, had the emotional pull to zap him to her when she was worried about her friend being hurt about being turned to stone for a week and a half when she had not that response to her own death. She cared about others more than herself. His soulmate... His soulmate had a fucking Hero complex the size of the U.S.S Armada.

What if this happened again? Last year she had nearly died, this year too, he was sure a pattern was forming and no one but him seemed to be fighting against it. Her tutors... Her so called 'friends', they seemed all too happy to go along for the ride, let Harry handle it all, fuck the risks to herself, and reap the benefits. Harry was trapped in her own cycle. However, where he broke his with either leaving or staying, hers would only end in death.

What if next time she didn't pull through? He would be left in his own world, ignorant until the pain would fill him, the torment of the bond snapping and rotting, festering, and he would know he could have helped but Harry had not the thought or emotions to call him to her in her time of need. Yeah... No. Jim wasn't willing to play that part and he wasn't willing to let other people cram her into the ill-fitting spot of martyr either.

Standing at the foot of her bed, Jim crossed his arms over his chest, for once a smile nowhere to be found. Harry's own grin fractured around the edges, splintering, breaking. "I'm not buying this whole spiel that old man keeps trying to force feed you. The-Girl-Who-Lived, the chosen one, bullshit. The next time there's even a hint of danger, no matter if you're friends come up with some convoluted scheme that seems to always place you as the meatshield, or if that bearded fucker says it's for the 'greater good'... You. Call. Me. Do you understand Harry? I don't care whether you have to pinch yourself, get someone to punch you full force in the face or if you have to picture dead puppies or your friends hurt, anything that works, you call me. Are we clear? You nearly died Harry... You nearly died countless times already and I wouldn't have known... What if it was the other way around, would you be okay with it? Promise me you will at least try to call me."

Harry gave a small nod. "I promise I'll try."

* * *

 **Part VII**

 **Who are you?**

Spock sat rigidly, the twinge of his bruised cheekbone and split lip nothing but a blip on the recess of his mind. He was hollow, emptied, disemboweled. A true Vulcan. In truth, he had spilled all his caged emotions when he had lunged at the other boy after he taunted Spock's mother degradingly. Hence his situation, his parents on their way to pick him up after the threat of expulsion turned to 'extended leave until he reacquainted himself with the Vulcan way'. He knew why the board came to this decision, his high test scores were coveted but they would not allow such... Human behavior to take place in their hollowed halls. He just felt numb, eyes deceivingly placid and complacent, thoughts hazy, far-fetched dreams.

The illusions of this place, his life, the Vulcan's around him were broken. He was half human, there was no escaping that fact, no denying it after today, where rage had taken over him and he had pummeled the bully until he had been dragged off. But... But he was also Vulcan. He thrived on logic, routine, endless equations and probability. His two sides, the emotional reckless human didn't mix well with the cool, factual temperament of his Vulcan side. Most days, all days, he found himself fighting... Himself. How to react to each situation presented to him, how to fit in. Sometimes, he was wholly too Vulcan that he could sense it hurt his mother, other times he was too human to please his father and his own society. He was balancing on the knife's edge, tittering.

Was he Vulcan? Was he Human? He looked Vulcan, but looks meant nothing, deceiving as his own eyes in that moment. Biologically speaking, he was nearly entirely Vulcan, his green blood attested to it, but inside, sometimes, a little flash of humanity pierced through his Vulcan exterior and he was not sure it was a good thing or a bad thing. "Vulcan... Human... Tit for tat in my book. Interchangeable. Does it matter? First and foremost, you are, well, you. Why do you believe you have to cut a part of yourself out to live happily?

Spock couldn't bring himself to look at Harry, although he saw her from his peripheral vision, blurred, sitting on the window sill, bathed in sunlight, staring out into the vast world before her, wild hair loose, legs swinging back and forth merrily. She looked as he had pictured those fabled little earth creatures his mother would tell him about when he was young. Irish Sprites. "My human attributes make it hard to assimilate fully into Vulcan culture. However, I look and act too Vulcan for humans to be entirely comfortable with me in their presence. Human's, as welcoming as they believe they are, do not often notice their own uncomfortable state when in our... Mine... A Vulcan's presence. If I am to create a career, a stable home, it is imperative I assign to one civilization and... as you said, 'Keep climbing'."

She had lifted her hand to touch the glass, using her index finger to draw imperceivable patterns, swirls, circles, curves and sweeps. He wondered what it would feel like to have the patterns drawn on the back of his hand, on his forearm, over his soulmark. He would not look at her, couldn't, and she was not pushing him too, instead, she was talking to the window peacefully. "Huh. I suppose this is where we differ. A career, a big home and high standing in society are only bonus's to us. Will it make you happy? Are you sure? To me, happiness comes from within. You can't be happy with life without first being happy with who and what you are. Are you happy with yourself Spock?"

Spock faltered."I... I do not know the correct answer."

Harry chuckled sadly, the sound he had come to understand as hers, only hers. He had never heard anyone or anything able to replicate the same melancholy mirth she could. It wasn't taunting, not provoking, it was like she was sad herself because others around her could not be, so she would burden that honor, for them. "There's no correct answer, Spock, it's not a test. Although you are not, I can tell you that now. Otherwise, you wouldn't hesitate to say yes."

There was a weighty pause before she carried on as if she was letting what she said sink in, or bloom in the air between them. Flowering, offering the fruit of wisdom they both could pluck and gauge on. "Life is harsh. It has it's good moments, followed by the bad, then it repeats, a cycle. Frowns, smiles, tears, laughter, they're all the same thing in the end. Just us handling life's obstacles. Vulcan's don't show their emotions, do they? They try and bury it, control it. Where as humans are all about emotions, nothing is worth anything if it doesn't bring the rush of feeling. Vulcan's strive for placid numbness, where Human's abhor it. But you, Spock, aren't truly Vulcan. You aren't truly Human either. Embrace the emotions when it calls for it, embrace the numbness if that is what you need. Turn to logic and equations and probability, but don't forget to smile and love and laugh. Even if it's just internally. You. Are. You. Your emotions are your own, no one will ever feel exactly like you, no one will ever be you. Express yourself, but in your own way. Not in the way Vulcan's say you should. Not in the way Human's say you should. Damn it, not in the way I tell you to either. Find your own way, be that Vulcan, Human, or the spectrum in between, as long as its good for you."

Harry turned to face him, and like her eyes were magnetized, they drew his own to them. "Don't hold yourself to Vulcan standards, but don't try to be human when you're not either...And then, only then, can you finally answer yes."

Harry slipped from the sill, slowly stalking closer. "Who are you, Spock?"

One step. "I don't understand-"

Two steps."Who are you, Spock?"

Three steps."A Vulcan-human hybrid-"

four steps."Who are you, Spock?"

Five steps."A sentient being of-"

She was in front of him now, leaning over."Who. Are. You. Spock?"

At his answer, Harry smiled, beaming, bright, blinding. Did the sun know she had stolen its shine for her own? She slipped into the seat next to him, shoulder to shoulder, but never tore her gaze away."I'm... I'm Spock. Just Spock."

Harry shook her head, curls fluttering around her. She smelled spicy but sweet, flowery but not overpowering the hint of hotness scorching the edges of her scent. "There's nothing just about it. You're Spock. One of a kind, not because of your hybrid status but because of you being you. You're my friend... If only you could see what I see. Don't ever loose the answer to that question. You 're not just a Hybrid. Not just a being. You're not trapped and you don't have to choose, no matter who or what tells you, you have to. You. Are. Spock. Don't ever doubt or forget that. I know I won't and I'll always be here to remind you if you ever lose your way."

Slowly, mind a little more than muddled, Spock put his index finger next to his middle finger, straight, folding his others into his palm. Inching, he let his hand wonder to Harry's lax one, curling his around the very same fingers on Harry's. The instant spark flooded his system, fogging yet contradictorily clearing, as if he was blind yet seeing for the first time simultaneously. He felt dizzy.

Just as Harry was returning the hold, His mother's voice rang out and broke the moment, Harry disappearing from view like a cloud blown away by a strong gust of wind. He could still feel her fingers in his." Oh, Spock. Are you okay? Look at your cheek! I ought to-"

Before his mother could make a dash for him, Spock compartmentalized and regained order over himself, a task not easily carried out, and turned to face his mother and father, folding his hands behind his back as he stood. "I will not apologize for my actions, though I know violence should and can never be the solution. I... May have reacted poorly, but it was my reaction and mine alone. I can not and will not apologize for it. I will dutifully follow the orders you and mother bestow upon me, but I do not regret, nor apologize for what I did."

He had expected confusion from his mother, a lengthy talk from his father, but gained neither. Instead, his mother smiled at him, just a slither, one side slightly higher than the other, but a smile all the same. His father, standing exactly like him, back straight, hands behind his back, quirked a brow at Spock. "You need to work on your assumptions. I was not, and will not, ask you to apologize. While I do not... Condone your emotional reaction to the Karauk's provocation of you, I understand a reaction was required in this instance. However, Spock, I am disappointed it has come to this conclusion. I had thought you knew well enough to come to me and inform me of these circumstances and happenings on the first available time frame. From the reports, Karauk has a concussion, a fractured jaw, and a sprained ankle. This is... Satisfactory punishment and deterrent for future thoughts and plans that he might think to carry out. However, from what I have seen and been informed of, you need to work on your defense. I shall acquire you an appropriate tutor you will visit and train with each week. This is your... Punishment."

Oddly, he thought his father was... Proud, although he would never say it. Perhaps he and Sarek were more alike than he had originally accredited them with. He supposed, he had to have gotten his love for his mother from somewhere.

* * *

 **Part VIII**

 **Who is Jim?**

Ever since Spock had found out she could do god-given magic, what he called 'atomic manipulation', whatever that was, and Jim exactly what this 'magic' could do, it was kind of hard to deny after witnessing it first hand, they had not stopped asking incessant questions.

"And you use these... Cauldrons to brew... Potions? That is highly impractical and unhygienic."

"Do you think you could make a spell to view people naked without them knowing?"

"So, even though you all belong to the same species and have the same advantage, you segregate yourself into smaller sects that are color coded? Then you are pitched against each other in a highly dangerous sky battle to obtain a golden ball that has no worth outside the previous fight? In your world, this is classed as... Entertainment?"

"Are dragon's real here? If so, why don't you all just ride them...Like, everywhere?"

"The yellow and gold on your clothes state you as a Gryffindor, do they not? Tell me about that house, the others are inconsequential."

"I'm not being mean Harry! I mean, all the other houses have cool animals. A gryffin. A snake. A raven... But a badger?"

"So these stairs move in a nondescript pattern and yet your tutors expect all students to traverse this maze to gain entry to their classrooms, yet do not allow tardiness?"

"Do you think if we got that Professor Snape laid, he would relax a little? I mean, surely that Professor Hooch is willing, she looks at him enough..."

"Your 'headmaster' states this forbidden forest is strictly off limits to all students... And then assigns detentions in the very same forest he forbade students from going in due to life-endangering hazards present? Does he not face an ethical practice board?"

"It was an honest question! You would think with all these lessons, 'how to be like Willy Wonka' would be amongst them, you have everything else."

"The existence of the house of Gryffindor does not make sense. You, yourself have more house of Slytherin attributes, those friends of yours, Hermione and Ron, both more ascribe to the house of Ravenclaw and the house of Hufflepuff respectively. Ambition is a trait. Loyalty is a trait. Intelligence is a trait. Bravery is not, it is a choice. Is this why you chose to be put into Gryffindor and not Slytherin? If so, do all students get asked to join Gryffindor, and have to answer yes, before being assigned to that particular house?"

"Can't you just magic your homework to do itself? What's the point in magic if you still have to work?"

Although, to be entirely fair to Spock and Jim and their never ending questions and curiosity, Harry, when she was 'called' to them, fell into the same rambling cycle they spiralled down and couldn't seem to swim out of.

"Is there an evolutionary advantage to having your heart where your liver should be? I mean, for a major organ, it makes sense to have it behind and enclosed in your lungs and protective casing of the ribs... But where your liver should be? How in Merlin's name is that logical?"

"So, these 'transporters' literally rip you apart atom by atom, reassemble you thousand upon thousand miles away, and this isn't classed as repeated murder?"

"So you say you should say 'live long and prosper' upon meeting a Vulcan right? You also say your race and culture strives strongly for Logic and submission, and sometimes total eradication, of emotion. To say to someone live long and prosper, is that not a wish for the recipient? Like farewell. It means you wish upon someone a good life and to far well in their departure. Doesn't that contradict everything you stand for, especially for something you use to greet everyone?"

"I'm sorry... Hold up, hold up. You have no money, Jim? No one has any money anymore? How the hell does that work?"

"Do all Vulcan's have black hair, or dark? I bet my hair, or any human's really, is quite a shock if so."

"Look, you have ships that can travel through bloody galaxies, medicine I can't even begin to understand, you can make food from nothing, and yet you still haven't created a scanner that can detect bullshit?"

"You have green blood, correct? Well... Do you blush green? Do you sunburn green? Merlin Spock... Have you got green freckles?!"

However, on such a visit to Spock, one of Harry's questions, one both she and he had been thinking but not willing to add a voice to, broke their normally jovial and child-like awe."We're never going to meet in real life, are we? I mean, I'm from the past... Damn, we're not sure I live even in the same dimension... I'll never actually get to meet you face to face, see your world and wonders with my own eyes... Will I? How do you get from 1992 to 2253? Witches and wizards live long... But not that long..."

They were in Spock's room, him perched primly at his desk, a flat computer he called a 'pad' laid before him and Harry was at his window, staring out at the Vulcan landscape, eyebrows drawn down tightly over her eyes. The year 1992 tickled a memory in his mind, but he pushed it back. Later. "The... Matter is a complicated one. With all the advancements of our... My civilization, as well as your owns unlimited possibilities, the eventuality of you finding a way here is not as low as first conceivable. It is simply figuring out..."

Spock couldn't carry on. He had... He had lied. To comfort Harry, yes, but it was still a lie. A first for him. It was not simple, it was not a case of figuring out time adjustments, loops or holes, or inter-dimension travel, it was a complicated matter that took complicated thought process and experimental theories. The most probable was the black-hole theory, but he highly doubted Harry would fall into one anytime soon. His only hope was she was his soulmate and surely whatever force linked the people and created the bonds, was not so vicious enough to give him one he could never meet. Soulmates always eventually met, it was nearly as trustworthy as the laws of physics... Yet, Harry defied those laws nearly on a daily basis. She would defy the impossibility of their situation too. Still, the Vulcan in him couldn't help but mentally run through the logistics of it all...

How did you get from 1992 to 2253? Harry sighed deeply and sagged against the window. "Well, I guess we'll figure something out eventually. I really do want to see Vulcan with my own eyes... And the starships Jim showed me."

Spock's finger halted near his pad, frozen. "Jim? Who is this Jim?"

Harry smiled her sunbeam smile but Spock could only stare. If a Vulcan could look and feel shocked, he was that Vulcan. "Jim? You know, the other one? I thought you two knew eachother... He's like you, calls me to him sometimes and he visits often. Isn't it... Isn't this normal?"

Spock audibly swallowed. "No. No, it is most... Peculiar."

* * *

 **Prompts filled:** Jim after a run in with Frank ✓, Spock with his bullies ✓. If you want to see anything that hasn't already been sent in, or has and you just really want to see it, don't forget to P.M it to me or drop it in a review, I'm trying to complete and include them all.

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 **QUESTIONS:**

 **Are Spock and Jim also soulmates? Are they going to 'visit' eachother?  
**

Sadly, in this fic, they're not actually linked together like they are to Harry. HOWEVER Jim and Spock meet before Harry gets to them in person and... Not to give much away, but chaos happens as it always does with these three and leaves Harry 'out of commision' for a little while, leaving Jim and Spock to bond without Harry having to play middleman. ALL THAT BEING SAID, I don't think I'm doing a romantic bond between Jim and Spock in this fic, best friends? Sure, but I doubt it's going to go into slash territory. Although, I won't say it's deffinately off the table because once I start typing up chapters with a goal in mind, the characters just sort of... Take over and do their own thing XD. At any rate, I sort of liked their bond the way it was, never deffinate, a bit ambigious but with a lot of signs pointing in a direction we all know. Spock's and Jim's relationship didn't really need a label and I like that and I'm not sure I want to label it either in this fic. Any how, what are your thoughts guys? Give it to me straight!

 **Are you doing Tarsus IV?**

I think this chapter answers that, although, Tarsus isn't really canon for the Kelvin timeline which the films are about. I am trying to fill all prompts, recommendations and other such things in this fic, so keep an eye out if you've made a suggestion.

 **When and how will they finally meet?**

I can't and won't say much on this matter because I would be giving away major plot lines I'm trying to weave together. BUT, I can say they will meet by chapter ten and give you a little hint that I hope will keep you guys looking forward to what's to come.

Harry's school years ranged from 1991-1998

The Eugenics war 'officially' lasted between 1992-1996

 **Why hasn't Harry asked for the boys names? Where they live? Or any other important details?**

Sorry If I was unclear last time, when they 'visit' or 'call', it feels a bit like a dream. In dreams, with me and most people I've talked to at any rate, they are abit uncontrollable. You don't really control what you say or do, you just go with the current sort of thing. You also don't question much, I mean, haven't you had a weird dream with perhaps pigs flying, but you're just like, okay and carry on? It's that sort of thing and when you do question things in dreams, the questions are normally not directed at the most important thing. Sorry if I'm not explaining well, it will become more apparent as the fic carries on. After all, this is only chapter two.

If you have any questions, and It's not a plot point I'm working on, don't hesitate to ask and I'll answer them in the next chapter.

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 **A.N:** I just wanted to say a big thank you to everyone who followed, favourited and especially to you little gems that reviewed! This ones for you! I hope you're all enjoying this, I'm having so much fun writing it. Bit of a warning: **I HAVE NO BETA.** I'll try and catch the mistakes but some will surely fall through my fingers. I will eventually go back and clean up the mistakes, but at the moment I'm concentrating on actually making the plot work out XD If this bothers you, I'm sorry.

As always, please drop a review! They keep the inspiration flowing and the fingers typing. Until next time- _carelessdodger_


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